Kristina McMorris - Letters From Home

“Is Dalt here?” His lenses magnified the enthusiasm in his eyes. His name escaped her, but he was unmistakably a schoolmate of Dalton’s.

“Um . . . no. He couldn’t make it.” Shame rushed through her, flooding every limb.

“Well, tell him I said hi.”

“Of course.” She smiled feebly. Whirling around, she bumped her way through the faceless mass. She needed to flee before any further harm was done, before her logical foundation could crumble beneath her feet.

She dashed out the doors and down the steps, not slowing until she’d boarded the “L” train destined for the seclusion of her suburban home. Stooped in her seat, she rested her head against the window. Summer clouds reclaimed territory above, draping a cluster of stars. No twinkling, no trace of existence.

If only mistakes were as easily erased.

At long last, the USO band played the final notes of the song. Until then, Morgan didn’t think anything could seem lengthier than the Sunday masses he attended as a kid. The audience thundered in applause and a slew of dancers dispersed, concealing his brisk parting from Betty. Concerned that Liz still hadn’t returned, he immediately strode off on a search.

For close to an hour, he scoured the place. He described the brunette’s features and what he recalled of her outfit to more than a dozen random people. He’d gone so far as to ask ladies exiting the washroom if she was still inside, in the event she wasn’t feeling well.

But his hunt was futile. It was clear she’d left.

Had he said or done something wrong? Or was it something he’d failed to say or do? He reviewed as many details as he could, and still no explanation.

Maybe it wasn’t him at all; maybe she was too upset over her dress to stay. Could have been an emergency that sent her rushing off. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t given up all hope. He wasn’t about to. There was too much to lose.

God, how could he find her again? He hadn’t even asked for her last name.

He scorned his thoughtlessness before taking another approach. Like a detective from a radio drama, he mulled over the clues. She mentioned studying, but where? And caring for the elderly. A hospital? A rest home? What about the redhead—which joint did she say she was hitting with her friends? He should have asked for specifics. Then again, if Liz had decided to follow them, she would have said so.

Wouldn’t she?

A swell of doubt washed over him. All these questions with no answers. What a chump he was, pining after a gal he didn’t know the first thing about. The assumption that her attraction equaled his now seemed laughable. Stupidity settled in his gut, heavy as a ton of coal. He blew out a breath.

Enough already. Time to focus on things that mattered: his brother, the war, his patriotic duty. A few days and he wouldn’t even remember what she looked like. That’s what he told himself. But then the feel of holding Liz swept over his arms, and already he knew she would haunt his memory long after she’d vanished.

Chapter 2

July 5, 1944 Chicago, Illinois

Two knocks, yet no one answered. No sign of life through the door’s smoky glass pane.

In the vacant corridor outside the instructor’s office, Julia scraped at the side seam of her overcoat, desperate to get this over with. She must have arrived too early; Madame Simone was nothing if not punctual.

With no clocks permitted in the small fashion academy, usually a rule Julia favored, she moved to the hall window for a narrow view of the world outside. Her eyes strained through the sun’s morning glare to reach the bank at the corner. The clock pinned to its brick forehead indicated 10:06. More than twenty minutes until their meeting. Twenty -four long minutes, to be exact.

“Splendid,” she muttered.

Had nerves not rushed her, she could have relaxed at home longer, interrogated Liz more thoroughly. Sifting her friend’s recount of the previous evening might have actually produced a juicy morsel. Perhaps, true to her claim, Liz had stayed at the USO merely to watch one last performance. But Julia would have at least enjoyed the chance to dig a little deeper, playing the role of a savvy investigator, before the clues turned cold.

Oh, why did minutes pass swiftly only when you wanted them to last?

A coffee. And an apricot fritter. Good time killers, she decided, recalling the bakery around the corner. Should her teacher be inquiring about Julia’s delay in fall registration—why else would she have asked her here?—a place to hone a response would be helpful: Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry, I simply can’t.

Julia pushed away an onset of guilt and hastened toward the exit downstairs. She felt pleading stares from the sketches of faceless models on the walls as she passed. In their bold hats and curly-strapped shoes, woven waterfalls of shimmery gowns, they silently called her back.

She averted her eyes, focused on her goal, just as a lineup of fragrances snuck into her senses: hemmed cotton, trimmed wool, raw imagination. They emanated from a slightly open doorway and blended in the valley of her lungs. As though on tracks, she found herself guided toward the scents, into her old classroom. Enticing and intoxicating as champagne.

A few more steps and apprehension dropped away. Light through a cluster of windows pronounced vibrancy in the bolts of fabric, poised at attention within the worn shelves. She trailed her hand over the spectrum of textures. As always, the French caretaker kept the materials organized by hues. They flowed like a rainbow, their divisions softened by the gradual transitions: from Persian blue to cornflower to cerulean to teal.

In this very space, like nowhere else, Julia had luxuriated in her impulses against the grain. For within these four boundless walls, the art of a woman’s freethinking was demanded, rather than discouraged.

And still, she had spent the past two months telling herself that her parents were right, that funds from clerking part-time at the nursing home should be spent on holiday gifts, not a hobby taking bites out of her regular studies. The commute itself, to the downtown academy, had contributed greatly to the slip in her respectable grades. Only a slight slip, but enough to raise concern from parents whose eldest daughter, Claire, had yet to stray from a trail spun of tradition, trimmed with approval.

Sometimes Julia wished her sister weren’t so dang likable. Had the girl been wretchedly competitive, or haughty in her seniority, like a typical sibling, Julia might have scuffed at Claire’s exemplary footsteps. Instead, so flawlessly formed, they gave her little cause not to smile, curtsy, and follow.

With a sigh, Julia pulled her fingertips from the propped fabric. She hadn’t expected a return to this familiar playground to cause such a tug on her heart. The thorny pulse of missing an old friend.

Loosening her grip on her handbag, she gazed at the pair of dress forms in the corner. Dashes of chalk acted as blueprints for the developing ensembles. She was trying to recall how many times she had used those very mannequins when a sight trapped her: Eggshell trim dangled awkwardly from the breast pocket of the maroon suit jacket. She scanned the tiled floor for the delinquent straight pin. Its metallic point sparkled, a beacon to her slender fingers.

Another’s design was considered a personal expression. Soulful. Sacred. But surely a student would appreciate the unobtrusive remedy.

Julia quickly retrieved the pin and tacked the trim back onto the pocket. As she confirmed its levelness, however, she had a vision of the extreme opposite: the entire pocket at a slant. To test the idea, just for a second, she angled and secured the accessory. The hem of the skirt needed to be raised as a complement. She shimmied the fabric upward around the wire cage below the limbless torso. Then she stepped back, evaluating.